


Orientations in Planetary Orbits

by honeybakedgrace



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Miscommunication, Sharing Clothes, Sleepy confession, pining sakusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace
Summary: It’s just a sweater. Kiyoomi owns one just like it. Nothing but a black sweater with the MSBY Black Jackals logo printed on the chest. In fact, a rather large group of people have the exact same sweater. It’s just a sweater, not even a unique one at that. Except that it is unique. Itcouldbe anyone’s sweater, but it’s not just anyone’s sweater is it?
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 34
Kudos: 778
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020





	Orientations in Planetary Orbits

**Author's Note:**

> This is my work for Day 5 of Sakuatsu Week 2020: Trust/Misunderstanding
> 
> The inspiration for this fic was sparked by this art by [Meta](https://twitter.com/metaandpotatoes/status/1240155802771603457?s=20), of sick Sakusa in his most comforting sweater! ;) Thank you so so much to Rachel and Gaby for doing the beta work on this fic and getting it into its best shape! Enjoy!

Almost immediately, Sakusa knows the sweater is not his. His eye for minute detail knows that he doesn’t wear an XL, he didn’t and doesn’t and would never spill Gatorade on his stomach, and his last name is definitely not Miya, which is etched into the tag inside. If Atsumu were here, Sakusa would hold the sweater at the absolute end of his fingertips as far away from his body as possible, or drop it entirely and point furiously at it until Atsumu came and fetched it. Yet, in the comfort of his own sterile home, where the only one beholden to his mannerisms is himself, he doesn’t have to disgustingly reject the sweater.

Sakusa’s unique cocktail of mysophobia, social anxiety, and above-average levels of distrust with the human population makes him an exceptionally strange blend of what most people would consider highly undesirable traits. Kiyoomi doesn’t care to be touched, especially not by the greedy hands of those who have been palming communal volleyballs that are likely riddled with disease. Kiyoomi doesn’t care to bump shoulders wet with sweat in the locker room, and he doesn’t want arms and bodies crushing him into suffocated embraces filled with humid exchanges of thick, gooey air. He thinks that the world around him is much more digestible at arms-length. While Kiyoomi is well-versed in building boundaries, he’s not so skilled in tearing them back down. The Jackals readily adjusted to his quirks ( _not_ including Bokuto who was sent home to many scoldings from his boyfriend), and after the standards had been set, they stayed. Anyone looking in would think it a success. Hell, anyone who knew Kiyoomi would consider it a God-ordained miracle. Yet, as Sakusa bunches the sweater up into his fists, letting the black cotton-polyester explore his every callous and knuckle, he’s blind-sided by the passing thought that he has longed to sink his hands into Atsumu’s shirt for a very long time.

It’s not what Sakusa had in mind, which also sparks the curiosity of when and why he started having _that_ in mind. The very present thought of sinking his hands _into_ Atsumu, in every sense of the word, creeps slowly out of his subconscious, causing him to drop the sweater with a sharp gasp. Sakusa turns heel towards the kitchen, not wanting to see his brilliant red blush from tip to toe on display in his bathroom mirror.

Sakusa doesn’t start cooking, even though this is what he would be doing around this hour. Another feature of being stuck in his own mind is a rigorously strict and precise routine followed point by point each and every day; the only times he had ever broken it was of other people’s doing. Sakusa hops up onto his kitchen counter like if he gains the high ground the sweater cannot hurt him. As he crawls up onto the kitchen island to get a vantage point looking into his room to see the sweater in a heap on the floor, Sakusa decides that the lost time he spends on his counter and not cooking is the sole fault of Atsumu Miya. Sure, it may be Sakusa on hands and knees on his granite countertop craning his long neck to see a sweater laying on his bedroom floor, but it's _Atsumu’s_ sweater. It was probably Atsumu who plucked Sakusa’s sweater from its place on the locker room bench without a single thought, a fact that greatly perturbs Kiyoomi. One thoughtless moment from Atsumu and suddenly Kiyoomi can’t seem to stop the endless influx of incredibly pervasive and obscene thoughts flooding his psyche all at once.

A minute or so passes before Sakusa comes to the conclusion that he cannot see certain, very specific areas of his bedroom floor from the kitchen, not even when he’s sitting on the counter. It’s more dangerous not to be able to have eyes on the sweater at all times than it is to try and hide from it, he decides. With a long and dejected sigh, Sakusa climbs down and stomps to his bedroom, stopping in the doorway to focus his acute gaze onto the little black heap. 

It’s just a sweater. Kiyoomi owns one just like it. Nothing but a black sweater with the MSBY Black Jackals logo printed on the chest. In fact, a rather large group of people have the exact same sweater. It’s just a sweater, not even a unique one at that. Except that it is unique. It _could_ be anyone’s sweater, but it’s not just anyone’s sweater is it? 

For many months, Sakusa has been… charmed, by Atsumu Miya. Trapped is more akin to the truth, but Sakusa lives in the sliver-thin and in-denial headspace where he cannot be trapped by someone who isn’t and has never been and will never be interested in someone like him in the first place. Atsumu could have never imagined that he could produce such colorful and electric spirals into madness. It’s not as if Atsumu had been trying. In fact, even if he had not acknowledged Sakusa’s very existence, Kiyoomi supposes he’d be in the exact same place as he is now, having a Mexican standoff with a shirt. 

Finally unable to withstand the sight of any article of clothing cluttering his bedroom floor, Sakusa retrieves the sweater, holding it at arm’s length as he quickly moves towards his closet. Sakusa plucks a wooden hanger from the rack and slips the sweater onto it, now holding it by the hook. Normally, Sakusa would expect himself to keep the article at a distance because he wanted nothing to do with it, but now when his arm begins to tire from holding the sweater suspended in midair it’s because he wants everything to do it. Kiyoomi wants to bury his face into it, to be completely enveloped by the shamefully sweet scent of Atsumu Miya, to leave stray strands of his inky black curls in its weave for Atusmu to discover later and think of him and his silken hair. Maybe if he did Atsumu would think about taking Sakusa’s hair in fistfuls and pulling at it, for no other reason than to be an annoyingly intolerable and endearing brat. Which is why the sweater rests at a clinical distance. 

Sakusa promptly hangs the shirt onto the door jamb leading into his bedroom, unable to stop himself from stealing cursory glances back at it swaying in the swirling draft of wind seeping in from the crack in his bedroom window. Sakusa does start making dinner, but it’s all done with the sweater pulling taut to the puppet strings wrapped around his throat. When Sakusa has his back turned the strings coil around his chest and neck, burning bright red lashes into his translucent skin. Looking directly at it is equally dangerous, he learns when only the rank of burning chicken in the bottom of the pan can draw his attention away. So he settles for its ever-present existence in the corner of his eye. As he moves about his apartment, Sakusa idly notices that the sweater is pulling everything about his life into its orbit. The barycenter made of mediocre black cotton and polyester blend very easily and swiftly bends Sakusa to its will, orienting him to its motion in time and space rather than the other way around. Every shallow and uncertain shaky breath is beholden to the kick and rustle of the shirt’s hem by the continual breeze pouring in. 

Sakusa sits at the end of his dining table. He’s seated just close enough to the edge of the dining room that if he leans back in his chair he can see the black sweater, and he does. Every few bites Sakusa tears his gaze away from the bare beige wall in front of him and gingerly tilts his chair onto its back legs. His curls brushing over his forehead and cheeks as he takes a long, thoughtful sip of red wine from a straw pierced through a napkin covering his otherwise exposed glass, Kiyoomi Sakusa burns eye-sized lacerations into the sweater. 

_It’s mocking me_ , Kiyoomi contemplates, the porcelain skin stretched over his forehead giving way to ravines of irritation and doubt. After an embarrassing amount of time spent pensively examining the sweater from this position, Sakusa muddles through his meal, scraping an unfortunate amount of uneaten but touched food into his trash can. In sneaking towards his shower, Kiyoomi brushes his shoulder faintly against the black sleeve, regrettably catching the aroma of liberal amounts of deodorant and faded cologne in his nose. Sakusa strips in the center of his room, having to use his hand to block the physical manifestation of his own disconcerting arousal. It unsettles him that a sweater could spark such vibrant fires of fantasy in his mind, and wonders if this says more of him or of Atsumu. Probably him, definitely him, Sakusa decides, chewing a purple wash of a bruise into his bottom lip. It catches up to him in a delayed spark of awe that he would very much like to see Atsumu’s shirt on his floor again, but that it might be too desperate to use this opportunity to do so. While he still holds dear to the single shred of dignity that lives in his active decision not to suddenly rip Atsumu’s sweater off the hanger, Sakusa turns the shower knob to start the flow of ice-cold water. 

Typically he’d sit on the edge of his bed until the steam begins to cloud his view of the bathroom before getting in, but a douse of cold water seems very necessary to the southern half of his naked body. Sakusa shivers under the freezing stream of water pounding the back of his skull and seeping into the curves of his muscles, following river beds of pale skin down to the floor. His uncharacteristically warm flesh quickly goes frigid, the excitement of a thousand fantasies no longer collecting below his waistline. Once Sakusa feels fully and unsatisfyingly relaxed, he cranks up the heat until it sears red splotches under the stars of black and brown moles freckling the sky of his muscular back. 

As he methodically massages shampoo through his tangled curls, Sakusa buries the knowledge that someone with thicker and stronger fingers would do a much better job at curling their digits through his knotted locks. Sakusa vigorously scrubs himself from tip to toe, pushing harsh and grainy polishes into his raw skin as if it would send his unseemly thoughts spiraling down the drain with his dead skin. Unfortunately, it occurs to Sakusa that molting won’t peel away something so deeply buried inside he’s sure it sets the tune of his heartbeat. After an inordinate amount of time spent scrubbing so hard his arms ache from the effort, Sakusa turns the knob back and takes a soaking step out of the shower. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother to pat himself dry and instead opts to stand at the edge of his bedroom, dripping puddles into the carpet, and stare angrily at the sweater, still hanging where he left it. Water curls down the winding paths of inky black strands of hair and drips slowly and torturously onto his cheekbones. Sakusa wants to bat it away, to push his hair back to stop the incessant dribble of quickly chilling bathwater onto his face, but again he finds himself bound to the sweater’s, to _Atsumu’s_ , orbit. In his head, Kiyoomi knows that being free-floating in space can only last for so long, something bigger and greater than himself will pull him in eventually. But Kiyoomi Sakusa is nothing if not stubborn, and blaming Atsumu for his jarring adjustment to circling something bigger than himself for the first time in his life is a hill he is more than willing to die on. 

It’s not until the rivers along his skin run dry that Sakusa manages to brave the few steps to fetch a towel from a shelf in his closet. He buries his head into the plush material, letting it soak up the remaining dampness in his hair. Sakusa reaches next for a pair of underwear, sliding the black briefs quickly up his ice-cold thighs. He dares to reach for a shirt, but his hand hovers over the green tee-shirt before retracting with a great deal of resistance. Sakusa feels the string at his elbow pulling the arm back, the other attached to his chin yanking his attention towards the sweater. It’s probably not as warm as he imagines, Sakusa thinks. If he puts himself inside the shirt it would be nothing akin to the imagined sensation of being nothing but a scrap of fabric away from Atsumu Miya. But it doesn’t stop him. Sakusa crosses the room in three large strides, furiously grabbing at the sweater and tossing the hanger behind his back. Before his mind can catch up to his body’s schemes, the sweater is already being pulled over his head. 

Once it’s on, Sakusa stops existing as a person in space but instead as a puddle inside Atsumu Miya’s sweater. 

It’s impossibly warm, or maybe it’s just the fever of Sakusa’s flaming skin at the thought of living inside the fabric of the article of clothing Atsumu heats up against. It’s a strange act of trust for Sakusa to willingly put such a thing against his sacred skin. The need to rinse away the sins of yesterday suddenly vanishes under the blanket of warmth the sweater provides. It smells like everything Sakusa never knew he longed for. He lifts his arms up and pulls the material to his nose, inhaling every square inch of the intoxicating fragrance. The aroma of day-old pheromones molded with old spice deodorant and faded cologne likely picked up from the smooth and bare skin of his chest floods his brain with a wild mixture of chemicals Sakusa has yet to experience. Kiyoomi is unaware of how much time passes with his whole face buried into the sweater but it’s long enough that when he pulls back a strand of drool catches and rips, slapping and sticking to the corner of his mouth. Sakusa quickly wipes it away on the sleeve before he can realize the counter-productivity of that decision. Once he does, Sakusa stomps a foot into the ground in livid frustration, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He pouts his still swollen bottom lip and quickly flicks off the lights and crawls into bed god-forbid he do anything else so grossly violating in the sweater. Well, besides sleeping in it. 

Despite his mind being filled to the brim with manic thoughts, Sakusa slips into sleep mere moments after his head hits the pillow. The inability to focus on one coherent thought making his brain, by some weird stretch of the imagination, mostly empty, and the comfort of being wrapped inside the— purposefully, as Atsumu had claimed— oversized sweater allows him to fall into a shallow and fitful slumber where his mind shuffles through images of a certain setter absent of the very sweater he curls up into.

…

The distant yet utterly jarring sound of his doorbell brings Sakusa awake. Groggily, the ownership of the sweater long forgotten in the fog of sleep, Sakusa stumbles through his apartment lit only by the pale glimmer of a half-moon slipping in through the living room window. Without much thought, he pulls the door open, not awake enough to fully register the realization that Atsumu is hunched over, panting, with one arm outstretched holding a gallon Ziploc bag stuffed with Sakusa’s own Black Jackals sweater. 

“Omi…” gasp, “Omi-kun, you-” wheeze, “you… I,” with a deep, hollow inhale to fill his crying lungs, Atsumu stands up straight, shaking the package in Sakusa’s face, “I accidentally switched our sweatshirts,” Atsumu holds it out towards Sakusa, and when he doesn’t immediately take it, Atsumu’s face contorts in worry.

“It’s washed! Well not by me, Samu washed it for me. I knew ya wouldn’t trust me ta wash it myself. I didn’t touch it either, Samu bagged it up and I brought it, as quickly as possible.” Atsumu babbles, not coming up for air until he catches Sakusa watching him with a strange intent, like staring down the barrel of a gun or looking into the feral eyes of a predator on the hunt. 

“Miya,” Sakusa takes the full bag and examines it with a cursory glance. Atsumu stands at attention, fighting a shiver at the low-toned mention of his name. 

He’s certain he’s cooked his own goose now. One thoughtless mistake, swiping the wrong sweater and it would certainly ruin any and all scraps of friendship he had built with Sakusa in the previous months. Getting Sakusa to say hello in the mornings had taken 6 weeks alone, what kind of setbacks awaited him after this slip-up, he can only imagine. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sakusa sets the shirt on the small table placed next to his door holding his keys and wallet. 

“D-don’t…” Atsumu grins, the feeling of dread sizzling off him like steam. “Geez, I’m glad to hear it… ah-” With the words of reassurance that Atsumu will live to see the sun rise in the sky again, he becomes acutely aware of the fact that Sakusa is wearing nothing more than a pair of underwear riding so high up his hips he can count the striations in his inner thigh and… and a hauntingly familiar Black Jackals sweater.

“Uh… Omi-kun?” Atsumu scratches the back of his head, fighting a blooming pink blush spreading quickly and loudly from the nape of his neck. “Didja not realize yer not wearing yer own sweater?” Atsumu lifts a shaking finger to Sakusa’s chest, not daring to utter the phrase _my sweater_.

Kiyoomi’s brain, in real-time, realizes he is in fact, still wearing the barely drool crusted sweater of the object of his shameful affection. Sakusa flips through the Rolodex of ways to approach the walking nightmare he’s living in. He can slam the door shut, which will likely result in Atsumu being confused but not willing to bring it back up again. He can apologize, which will also likely confuse Atsumu but might relieve some of the building weight on Sakusa’s chest to hear Atsumu forgive him for violating the unspoken trust that your teammate won’t lovingly drool over your sweater without your knowledge. He can also flee the country, which starts to look more and more attractive the longer he goes without saying a word, which is directly proportional to the progression of Atsumu’s increasingly complicated and twisting expression. As sparks fly around the bursting and flaming wires in his brain, Sakusa composes a fourth and terribly horrifying but appealing option. Kiyoomi fills with the fantasy of what the secondhand scent of the sweater would taste like coming from the real thing, standing a foot away from him. If he were more cognisant of the present, if he were to have any semblance of reason, he would never have even allowed himself to play pretend. But now that the thought is running repeat in the theater of his mind, Sakusa can’t let it go. This results in the way too long pause before Sakusa, hands greedy and _hungry_ , lunges out to grip Atsumu by the head, crashing into a kiss with wet, sloppy lips and grinding teeth. It starts out reckless, but as Atsumu becomes conscious of what’s happening, the kiss grows desperate, _needy_. 

It’s short-lived, but it stills leaves Atsumu panting, more worn out than he was after running up 6 flights of stairs to deliver a sweater. Sakusa steps back into the apartment, a shadow casting over half his body. Atsumu stumbles a foot backwards, face flushed pale and pink before the red heat floods his cheeks. 

“O-Omi?” Atsumu sputters, squinting his eyes to make sure it’s really Sakusa standing there. 

“Atsumu,” the setter nearly chokes at the sound of his first name in Kiyoomi’s low, seductive tone, “would you like to stay the night?” 

Atsumu wants nothing more than to be wrapped up in that kiss all night long, hell, forever. If Atsumu had to choose between being a human person and being caught between the lips of Kiyoomi Sakusa for the rest of his life he would much prefer to be a whisper of mist trapped on his tongue in an instant. 

“That’s all I’ve wanted, ever.” Atsumu blurts out, clapping his hand over his mouth once the confession has already slipped free. If Sakusa is surprised, he doesn’t show it. 

“Good,” Sakusa grabs Atsumu by the collar of his sweatshirt, dragging him stumbling in by the neck. Atsumu is tempted to think he’s dreaming, but even his brain couldn’t fathom the power behind Omi’s lips. The way Sakusa so fiercely claws his way into Atsumu’s mouth, wildly eager to explore, Atsumu is less the wild beast he hoped, but rather virgin land. All he can do is wait for Sakusa to come and find him. Fortunately Kiyoomi doesn’t keep him waiting, pressing hot and fast kisses to the corners of Atsumu’s lips between shallow breaths. 

Sakusa is entirely out of his depth. Maybe it’s Atsumu’s eager hips folding into the curve of his body, seeking contact, warmth, _friction_. Maybe it’s the sweet and high pitched noises of pleasure escaping from Atsumu’s throat so shamelessly. Maybe it’s the bravery of 3 am on a Wednesday, caught in the act of being so stupidly head over heels for someone that was entirely unattainable the last time he was awake. Regardless, a surge of sureness brings a purr to his lips as Atsumu turns to putty in his long, bony fingers. 

“So, this is all you’ve ever wanted?” Sakusa teases in a monotone, leaning into to place kisses along Atsumu’s jaw. 

“Ya have no idea,” Atsumu whines, bringing his hands up to coil his fingers in Sakusa’s curls, just like Sakusa had wished he would. “I’ve been dying for ya, I swear ta god.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sakusa queries, wishing he hadn’t spent 15 minutes staring at a shirt from the kitchen counter when he could have been doing this instead. 

“What? On the one in a million odds you’d be interested, or _gay_?” Atsumu snorts, and Kiyoomi detests how endearing it is. 

“Clearly I’m at least one of those things.” 

“What would it take to get ya to be both of em?” Atsumu chuckles into the kiss, the pair still spinning towards Sakusa’s bedroom. 

“Why don’t you make an offer, and I’ll tell you if it does the trick?” 

Atsumu has a single passing thought before his mind goes wholly blank, consumed by the beast of Sakusa’s unchecked desire: that Kiyoomi Sakusa is the one aligning him, yanking him from the jaws of deep space into his center. 

“Anything for you, Omi.”

**Author's Note:**

> With this piece, I am officially halfway through SakuAtsu week! I really enjoyed getting to write Sakusa as the pining idiot and I just think he would be the type to find great importance in mundane things (like sweaters). Special thanks to the discord (as always) for keeping me motivated and in good spirits during this entire process, I can't wait to share my final fic on Sunday! 
> 
> -Grace :)
> 
> Ps if you're so inclined, come yell with me over on twitter: @honeybakedyams


End file.
